


Crime Scene

by Familiae



Series: Crimes Against Decency [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Blood and Gore, Chains, M/M, Murder, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2021-01-25 02:02:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21348433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Familiae/pseuds/Familiae
Series: Crimes Against Decency [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1538989
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

She stood as white as a sheet—eyes sunken, heavy bags beneath her eyes, her hair, wild, her limbs so lean you could see the end of her bones sticking out just beneath. Blood flowed from a wound in her abdomen, staining the nightgown she wore, and leaking to the floor, forming small rivulets throughout the skin of her legs.

Her hands shook as she clutched at her stomach, and she stumbled a few steps forward, looking lost, confused. Somehow, that struck me—did she even realize what was going on?

“H-help?” her voice was raw with pain.

I blinked, took a step back. That’s all it took—a single step. As soon as my foot hit the hardwood floors behind me, she dropped to her knees. Slowly she lifted her hand from her stomach—stained crimson and still shaking.

I closed my eyes.

“Tactless,” a voice scoffed, “she asked for your help.”

I ignored it.

The stench of blood and sweat and cigarette smoke filled my nose. Footsteps echoed closer, then farther away, then closer again. Soft groans filled my ears—shuddering gasps, and soft quick breaths. Once I heard a sudden shriek, however, I opened my eyes—

The toe of Izaac’s shoe pushed at the girl, nudging her until she lay sprawled on her side, oblivious to her cries of pain. She gasped, trembled, but did not bother crawling away from him—simply accepted the misery as something she would have to endure.

“You already—” I tried to protest.

Izaac silenced me with a look.

I turned my head away from him—fixing my eyes on the hardwood floor next to my shoes.

“Peritonitis is extremely painful, but quick to kill—she’ll stop writhing around soon,” Izaac’s musical voice floated up from above the weak protests of pain. It almost sounded like he was trying to comfort me.

“Can I—”

“Leave? Soon. We need to make sure no one’s under the impression we killed her.”

_We_, that made bile rise to my mouth. I didn’t think Izaac would appreciate it if I puked, but maybe—

“You don’t want to go to jail again,” was all he said before drawing the cigarette to his lips. I concentrated on the spirals of smoke floating up to the ceiling, trying not to think about how the groans of pain had ceased.


	2. Apep

“Apep,” the word—name—phrase?—was a growl in my ear, the word being matched with a forceful grasp to my hips and a measured trust that jolted me forward just enough to know that whatever this word or name was, it was serious business.

I knew better than to talk or ask—it had been clear from the start that Izaac was not focused on me. He had come in the dead of night—woken me up by throwing himself at my bed. He had been agitated, and uneasy. He spoke more than usual, but none of it had made sense to me—most of it was in another language, Russian, German or Portuguese. The words melded into each other making it impossible to tell.

His usually bewitching voice had an edge to it—nervous and anxious and excited all at once. He babbled and I did not dare move. When he pushed himself towards me, it was only to caress my cheek, my shoulder, my chest, my thighs. It had me torn—I wasn’t sure how to react. His tone and his gentle actions seemed almost contradictory, but I knew better than to protest.

He kept repeating something as he talked, though. It sounded important—_Apep_. That was what he moaned when his thrusts became more pleasurable, but it did not give me a clue as to what it was.

I wasn’t sure if to feel relieved he was being so gentle or concerned—his excitement made him brusque, but something of his movements told me it was not intentional. He caressed and licked my skin with as much reverence as Jo had once done—and it was disorienting. I had long ago chosen to hold on to my silence, hoping that somehow keeping quiet would avert any pain, but it still made me nervous.

When his hips moved, it was with slow movements that rocked me gently. More than Izaac had ever given me—more than I knew how to react to. I contemplated trying to drift back to sleep, but the whole situation had my nerves on edge.

What was he planning?

He lifted my leg to gain better access, fingers grasping my thigh, thumb caressing the flesh. It was odd—at least until he bit my ear hard enough to make me hiss. Then I knew I was here, with Izaac, actual Izaac and not some weirdo horny clone.

Not to mention, I think that bite drew blood.

“Apep,” he moaned again in my ear, his thrusts picking up on speed, making my back arch and press against him.

He bit into my shoulder as his orgasm ripped through his body. I hissed once more, trying to writhe away from his teeth only to be pinned in place by his strong arms wrapping around me.

He held me to him for a few more minutes—his cock in my ass, and his breathing soft and gentle. His fingers played against my skin, his hand let my leg fall back in place, and the hand skimmed the flesh of my hips. 

Then, as suddenly as he came, he pulled away and stood. Silently, he adjusted his clothes, zipped and belted his pants, then turned away from me and left, making sure to shut the door behind him. He did not even glance my way as he exited the room.

With a sigh, I gathered the bed sheets around myself and straightened my posture. Nothing to do about it except get some rest.


	3. Chapter 3

“Hold still,” the words were stern, but gentle. Overtime I had come to realize that Damien was gruff, but not unkind. He didn’t take any joy in beating an already beaten man, and I would oftentimes see something akin to pity glimmering in his eyes. He tried to help when he deemed it appropriate, and I appreciated it—it was odd to find kindness in such a place. Yet, at the same time, I abhorred it.

Would he really be helping me if not for this feeling? This _pity_.

I doubt it.

And, _oh_, must I look so pathetic.

It had been a month now. My wrist still felt awkward and swollen, my arm in a sling, and my leg firmly wrapped in a cast, but the bruises and wounds had long since healed. I no longer woke up with a migraine throbbing behind my eyes, but there was an ache in the hurt bones that spread and sharpened to the point where I spent most of my days with a mind fogged by painkillers. At first, I had been reluctant to take the drugs, but it soon became apparent that it was the only way that I would not spend my days unable to sleep or move—eyes cracked wide open, trying not to screech in pain whenever the slightest of tremors shook my body. At least with the painkillers, I could sleep.

It, perhaps, didn’t help, that I didn’t follow “the doctor’s orders.” I wouldn’t let my bones heal, sleepless nights and throbbing limbs be damned.

“You always make this so difficult,” the words were a sigh.

“You always insist on parading me everywhere.”

“Izaac wants to see you,” he stubbornly declared—like he always did. Why else would he be trying to doll me up if not for Izaac? What made him think I wanted to see that man? “Izaac is not without kindness,” Damien said with another of those life-heavy sighs when he caught the stubborn look in my eyes, “he spares you as much patience as you spare him—and, right now, you’re not even giving him the courtesy of the doubt.”

I snorted in response, looking away, pulling back from Damien’s steady hands as he tried to button up the shirt he had donned on me. Who picked the clothes, I did not know, but it was clear that Damien went to every detail, every possible checklist, so that they looked perfect once worn, despite the casts or the wearer in the way—the pants were ironed down so not even the slightest wrinkle marred the fabric, the black shoes so polished, I could see the walls of the room reflected in their surface, the belt’s leather smooth and untouched—and it all fit snugly. Sometimes I wondered if Damien had taken the measurements of my waist and legs in my sleep to get the clothes to fit as perfectly as they did. I could almost say they were comfortable at times.

Sadly, for my case, this was one of those times.

“Just give the man a chance. Izaac will warm up to you, and even _help_ you when you do the same for him.”

“Izaac will keep me here until he grows tired of seeing my face and goes back to threatening or I die and rot.”

There was a flash of something in Damien’s eyes then—impatience? Anger? I couldn’t tell, but as soon as it appeared it was gone, and he sighed. “I just want to help you,” he said softly, so low that almost did not catch the words.

“Then let me go,” a desperate attempt—I had tried before, and it only lead to dead ends, but I felt, that if I pushed him, he would crack, that he would... help, “let me call Marcos. I just need a few minutes for that—if you can’t let me go at least let me—”

His head jerked up, his eyes were cold, and I automatically recoiled—expecting to feel the weight of his fist in my gut, my world to swim and melt around me. “No.”

I felt light-headed. Hurt, even, despite the fact that no fist ever connected. I knew that would be the answer—I knew I shouldn’t expect anything more, but it still hurt. To know that with one little word my life was eaten up, devoured, trashed, and spat at my feet. _No_. I would not see Marcos again. I would not hear his footsteps or feel his warm breath near my skin again. I wouldn’t even hear my family’s voice again.

“Markus, you know I can’t. I wish I could, but I can’t. Ask anything of me—anything but that, and I swear to you I will do it for you, but I can’t do that.”

Lost, I stumbled—my heart felt heavy again—I shouldn’t have brought the subject up, it only brought memories. Things I didn’t need to remember—especially when the only prospect I had was to feel Izaac’s cold eyes on me. “Then I don’t need your help,” I hissed, meeting his eyes briefly to see a sudden flash of hurt there. I looked away, bit my lip.

“Markus...”

“Take me to Izaac.”

“Markus I—”

“_Now._”

There was an uncomfortable silence then. A silence that spread, like a single lonely chord, until it almost became unbearable. Part of me wanted to break it—to mutter a hasty apology and hope that would somehow remedy my previous words. The other part of me wanted to leave—to throw myself at Izaac’s mercy, knowing full well that none would be awaiting me.

Damien nodded once, eyes cast downward, looking thoughtful. He didn’t say another word, but reached over, and tugged at my shirt, quickly doing up the rest of the buttons with deft fingers. I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing at all, and allowed Damien to continue the rest of his work in silence. When he was done, he stepped back, giving me a single appraising look before he nodded, and walked to the door, holding it open for me, patiently waiting. 

He did not make a move to help me.

I tried to quiet my thoughts as I limped towards my crutches, feeling clumsy and stiff. All throughout it all I could feel Damien’s gaze on me, as if waiting for something. It took me a moment to realize that I had just said that I didn’t need his help.

My responding bitter chuckle didn’t even cause him to arch a brow. Instead he made a single motion for me to hurry up, before he walked away. Not even bothering to hold the door open anymore.


	4. Bitemarks

Apep’s groans were a cross between pain and ecstasy. He arched his back under Izaac’s eager touch, eyes rolling back on his head leaving me doubtful whether this was sex or an exorcism. Izaac groaned in tandem with Apep as well, moving against Apep, impaling himself on Apep’s eager member all the more. It would have been a typical scene for me if not for all the blood.

Half-moon crescents dotted Apep’s skin—all colorfully displaying Izaac’s teeth. Some of the marks even had blood trailing from them, and as I watched on, Izaac latched on like a hungry leech on Apep’s wounded shoulder and bit down. Hard.

Apep hissed, squirming under Izaac, but not pushing Izaac back—in fact, the opposite. Apep was eagerly pulling Izaac towards him—hips bucking under Izaac, and moaning into Izaac’s ear. It was worth noting that Apep’s hands were tied over his head as well—the chain wrapped around his wrists and curling around the bed post to pin him down in place. Every time he yanked at the chains, the bed gave a dangerous groan.

His mouth was gleaming in the light as well—crimson blood dotted his lips, face, throat, and chest, in what had undeniably been his dinner just a few moments ago. The blood was of little concern to Izaac who, after making sure his teeth were permanently engraved in Apep’s skin, placed his own mouth over Apep’s—kissing him so intensely his own lips soon were as stained with blood as Apep’s.

From my perch at the door, I peered closer into the room, hesitating. I would have turned around and ran if it wasn’t because of the bizarre method on which my orders had arrived—Izaac had apparently sent for me, emphasizing that he had need of me rather urgently, and although it was clear I was no longer needed (I hope), I wasn’t sure what exactly that entailed.

So I peered into the room, promising myself it’d just be the slightest bit before I left, only to catch a glimpse of a bloodied hand lying on the carpet. Following the trail of blood, further into the darkness of the room, there was a lump of glistening flesh. It didn’t move.

I backed out of the room—fast. Nearly tripping over my own feet in my haste to be away. As I made it away from the darkness of the room, I felt my back bump against someone. The feeling was so sudden; I struggled to stop my scream.

“Woah, there,” hummed the warm familiar voice of Damien, “you shouldn’t be here.”

Before I could even get a word in, he was already urging me away, “I don’t think they noticed you,” he said, low in my ear—the implication clear—_get out while you still can._


	5. Singin Serpents

“Maar_kuuss_.”

I held my breath, screwed my eyes shut, and tried not to shake.

“_Maar_kuus,” he sang, and I felt my blood chill.

He was closer now—I could hear the thud of his footsteps as he walked, the rattle of his breath, his teeth snapping as he spoke. My heart beat faster in my chest and I tried not to think of it—

But what the hell had happened? One moment he was all smiles, hugging me to him, and going on and on, in that cheerful way of his, about the going ons of his rather bland day. Then, suddenly, without me saying a word, something snapped. Before I knew it, a knife had appeared in his hand, and he was waving it before me with a grin on his face that hinted at something going dreadfully wrong.

I knew even Izaac had some difficulty with him at times, but I had never heard of something like this. And now he searched around the house, singing and whistling—swinging that knife around with a crooked grin on his lips.

I wanted Damien. Hell, I wanted Izaac right now.

“Don’t hide from me, big brother.”

I tried not to flinch at the sound of his voice. A part of me hoped it’d wear away—that he’d calm down just as suddenly as he seemed to hype up, but I knew that was too much to hope for.

“Why do you hide from me?” he sang, and I felt the hairs rise in the back of my neck, “Won’t you _help_ me?”

Help? With what? Being torn asunder? No thanks.

“Mar_kuuus_!”

His voice sounded close—too close for comfort. It was then that I suddenly remembered—snakes had terrible eyesight. But some of them had something akin to heat vision—and wasn’t their sense of taste and smell spectacular? They moved deadly fast too—

_Shit_.

I felt something pressing to my throat—cold and hard. It stung at the skin, and it was all the prompting I needed to hold my breath.

Apep pressed his face to the side of mine own, inhaling deeply. “I found you,” he sang. “You’re so good to me, but you shouldn’t have run away.”

I closed my eyes.

“But I won’t let you run any more.”


End file.
